the door. “Please, Mr. Drake. Sir.”
He turned. “Yes, Miss Rose?”
“I’d like to schedule a meeting with you. At your convenience, of course.” She lifted her chin, and her neck seemed to lengthen.
God, that neck. Artem let his gaze travel down the length of it to the delicate dip between her collarbones. A diamond would look exquisite nestled right there, set off by her perfect porcelain skin. Artem had never seen such a beautiful complexion on a woman. She almost looked as though she’d never set foot outdoors. Like she was crafted of the purest, palest marble. Like she belonged in a museum rather than here. What in God’s name was she doing working behind a jewelry counter, anyway?
He lifted his gaze back to her face, and her cheeks went rosebud pink. “A meeting? With me?”
He’d heard worse ideas.
“Yes. A business meeting,” she said crisply. “I have some design ideas I’d like to present. I know I work in sales at the moment, but I’m actually a trained gemologist.”
Artem wasn’t sure why he found this news so surprising, but he did. Few people surprised him. He wished more of them did. Ophelia Rose was becoming more intriguing by the minute.
She was also his employee, at least for the next ten minutes or so. He shouldn’t be thinking about her neck. Or the soft swell of her breasts beneath the bodice of the vintage sea-foam dress she wore. Or what her delicate bottom would feel like in the palms of his hands. He shouldn’t be thinking about any of the images that were currently running through his mind.
“A gemologist? Really?” he said, somehow keeping his gaze fixed on her face. God, he deserved a medal for such restraint.
She nodded. “I’ve have a degree from the New York School of Design. I graduated with honors.”
“Then congratulations are in order. Perhaps even a celebration.” He just couldn’t help himself. “With cake.”
Her blush deepened a shade closer to crimson. “Honestly, I’d rather have that meeting. Just half an hour of your time to show you my designs. That’s all I need.”
She was determined. He’d give her that. Determined and oh-so-earnest.
And rather bold, now that he thought about it. He had, after all, just walked in on her shoving cake in her mouth. Cake meant for lovebirds prepared to drop thousands of dollars for a Drake diamond. She had a ballsy streak. Sexy, he mused.
Artem wondered how much he was paying her. He hadn’t a clue. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
She took a step closer to him, and he caught a whiff of something warm and sweet. Vanilla maybe. She smelled like a dessert, which Artem supposed made perfect sense. “Can’t or won’t?”
He shrugged. “I guess you could say both.”
She opened her lovely mouth to protest, and Artem held up a hand to stop her. “Miss Rose, before you waste any more of your precious time, there’s something you should know. I’m resigning.”
She went quiet for a beat. A beat during which Artem wondered what had prompted him to tell this total stranger his plans before he’d even discussed them with his own flesh and blood. He blamed it on his hangover. Or possibly the sad, haunted look in Ophelia’s blue eyes. Eyes the color of Kashmir sapphires.
It didn’t seem right to let her think he could help her when he’d never even see her again.
“Resigning?” She frowned. “But you can’t resign. This is Drake Diamonds, and you’re a Drake.”
Not the right Drake. “I’m quitting my family business, not my family.” Although the thought wasn’t without its merits, considering he’d never truly been one of them. Not the way Dalton and their sister, Diana, had.
“But your father left you in charge.” Her voice had gone as soft as feathers. Feathers. A bird. That’s what she reminded him of—a swan. A stunning, sylphlike swan. “That matters.”
He shook his head. She had no clue what she was talking about, and he wasn’t about to elaborate. He’d already said too much. And frankly, it was none of her business. “I assure you, this is for the best. I might add that it’s also confidential.”
“Oh, I won’t tell anyone.”
“I know you won’t.” He pointed at the petit four that she’d scraped up off the floor, still resting in her palm. “You’ll keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours. Does that sound fair, princess?”
His news wouldn’t be a secret for long, anyway. Dalton’s office was right down the hall. If Artem hadn’t heard Ophelia’s sensual ode to cake and made this spontaneous detour, the deed would already be done.
He’d enjoyed toying with her, but now their encounter had taken a rather vexing turn. As much as he liked the thought of half an hour behind closed doors with those lithe limbs and willowy grace, the meeting she so desperately wanted simply wasn’t going to happen. Not with him, anyway.
Maybe Dalton would meet with her. Maybe Artem would suggest it. I quit. Oh, and by the way, one of the sales associates wants to design our next collection...
Maybe not.
“Okay, then. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Drake.” She offered him her free hand, and he took it. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
That last part came out as little more than a whisper, just breathy enough for Artem to know that Ophelia Rose with the sad sapphire eyes knew a little something about loss herself.
“Thank you.” Her hand felt small in his. Small and impossibly soft.
Then she withdrew her hand and squared her shoulders, and the fleeting glimpse of vulnerability he’d witnessed was replaced with the cool confidence of a woman who’d practically thrown cake at him and then asked for a meeting to discuss a promotion. There was that ballsy streak again. “One last thing, Mr. Drake.”
He suppressed a grin. “Yes?”
“Don’t call me princess.”
“Really, Artem?” Dalton aimed a scandalized glance at Artem’s unbuttoned collar and loosened bow tie. “That penthouse where you live is less than three blocks away. You couldn’t be bothered to go home and change before coming to work?”
Artem shrugged and sank into one of the ebony wing chairs opposite Dalton’s desk. “Don’t push it. I’m here, aren’t I?”
Present and accounted for. Physically, at least. His thoughts, along with his libido, still lingered back in the kitchen with the intriguing Miss Rose.
“At long last. It’s been two months since Dad died. To what do we owe the honor of your presence?” Dalton twirled his pen, a Montblanc. Just like the one their father had always used. It could have been the same one, for all Artem knew. That would have been an appropriate bequest.
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